


What’s behind the façade

by thepilot



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Aged-Up Peter Parker, Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Noir, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Blow Jobs, Choking, Coming Untouched, Consensual, Hair-pulling, Hurt Peter Parker, Light Dom/sub, Like Peter and Beck do love each other, M/M, Marking, New York City, Peter Parker is a Mess, Porn, Quentin Beck isn’t good? But he’s also not totally bad, SSBBsKinktober2020, Secret Identity, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:21:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27096496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepilot/pseuds/thepilot
Summary: Set in 1930’s New York City, Mysterio is a performer/magician and, well, he’s not exactly a superhero. He attempts petty crimes like robbing banks, tries to torture Spider-Man every now and then: the usual. He uses the generic “smoke and mirrors” and finally manages to upset Spider-Man. But Mysterio, née Quentin Beck, needs to be home for his date with one Peter Parker. Peter Parker shows up defeated and desperate.
Relationships: Quentin Beck/Peter Parker
Comments: 9
Kudos: 48
Collections: Far From Home - 1930’s, Thwip & Hari's Kinktober '20





	What’s behind the façade

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know how I got here, but ever since I discovered Mysterio in the Noir verse, I’ve been wanting to write something like this. It’s not based on canon, but is rather another alternative universe for Mysterio and Spider-Man (though I did borrow Mysterio‘s costume for this). Written for the prompts marking/punishment.

[](https://ibb.co/tJv4BmM)   


“One more block,” Quentin huffed, his leather shoes sloshing in the cold, pooling rainwater as he struggled to keep a discarded newspaper over his head with one hand whilst constantly adjusting his duffle bag on his shoulder with the other. Narrowly avoiding a collision with a lamppost, he swerved into the revolving front doors of his apartment building, tossing his soaked newspaper in a trash bin. He sloshed across the floor to the elevator, trying to shake the rain off as he went.

“Ten, please,” he nodded to the elevator operator. He shuffled inside and pressed himself against the wall. The operator, Lottie, an older, sarcastic woman with gray hair and a mischievous smile nodded at Quentin as she closed the heavy iron doors. 

“You’re behind your time, Mr. Beck,” she remarked, giving him the once-over. 

“The rain,” Quentin replied lamely, knowing that wasn’t the reason at all. A certain masked nemesis was the reason. But, remarkably, for the first time since they’d been at each other, Quentin had _won._ The ride up to the tenth floor was silent as Quentin planned out his next steps: as long as he could stash his duffle bag and make an attempt to start dinner…

“Hope your evening is pleasant, Mr. Beck. I expect Mr. Parker will be along in a bit?” Lottie asked with a sly smile. Quentin noted that they’d reached the tenth floor and gave her an innocent look as she opened the doors. 

“Is water wet?” 

Lottie chuckled and shook her head. “I’ll send him up when he gets here.”

Quentin nodded before dashing down the long hallway to his door, his footsteps echoing around him as if he were the sole occupant of theater with tap shoes on. In a flourish of keys, he finally pushed his way inside his modest, but still expensive, Midtown Manhattan apartment, flicking the lights on as he rushed to the bedroom. With a huff, Quentin dropped his bag on the floor and set to work hiding his obnoxious green three piece suit and starched white shirt. He examined them briefly, noticing a few new bloodstains from his encounter with _Spider-Man._

“Bastard,” he bit out as he shoved it in the back, not even bothering to hang it up. “But I got the best of you today, didn’t I?” The memory of Spider-Man fleeing brought a smirk to Quentin’s mouth. Of all the times they’d gone toe to toe, Quentin, no, _Mysterio,_ had never managed to pull off his tricks so flawlessly that Spider-Man had seemed to genuinely fear for his life and deserted. Would Mysterio have actually killed Spider-Man had he stayed? Quentin couldn’t honestly say. He’d unmask him, of that he was certain.

He pulled out his own mask and examined it for cracks before hiding that, too. With a grunt, he dumped out the rest of the contents of the bag and kicked them inside the closet along with the bag itself, not wanting to waste any more time. 

Quentin glanced up at a clock near the bed and decided he had time to freshen up before his lover arrived for their weekly, Friday night date. He dashed into the small en-suite bathroom and removed his suit coat, throwing it on the top tub to dry. With nimble fingers he opened his vest and shirt and began examining himself for cuts in the mirror. Infuriatingly, little red splotches decorated his chest and stomach: he’d either have to come up with a lie or make sure all the lights were off. He pieced himself back together and freshened up as best he could. 

Satisfied, Quentin finally headed to the kitchen to try and start dinner. He rummaged through his cupboards and decided on spaghetti as the easiest and quickest meal to make on this stormy, early autumn evening.

He was pulling out vegetables to cut up for sauce when there was a knock at the door. Quentin smiled. Even if he couldn’t tell his lover about his victory over Spider-Man, they could at least celebrate.

“I’ll be right there!”

Quentin hopped through the kitchen and living room to the door, opening it to find a wet, distant and sullen Peter. His bloodshot eyes caught Quentin’s gaze briefly before staring at the floor. The young man looked utterly defeated. Quentin frowned in question and Peter looked up, shaking his head. As soon as he was led inside and the door was shut, Peter buried himself in Quentin’s chest. Quentin wrapped his arms around him, holding him close.

“I messed up,” he whispered into Quentin’s chest, his voice barely audible. 

“That’s alright, sweetie. I’m sure that-“

Peter leaned back and clawed at Quentin’s vest, looking at him with fire.

“I want it to _hurt_.”

Peter’s words sent a shockwave through Quentin. Maybe he’d win twice today. He smiled at Peter and cupped his cheek, but Peter grabbed onto Quentin’s hand and pulled his fingers in his mouth, sucking on them lewdly.

“Go get ready while I put dinner on hold.”

Peter released Quentin’s fingers and nodded, his eyelids already heavy. Quentin grabbed Peter by the throat, just enough to make him gag before releasing him. “I said ‘go get ready,’” Quentin hissed. Peter nearly tripped running to the bedroom. 

Putting everything aside and saving it for later took longer than Quentin anticipated but he couldn’t help but take his time. He heard a moan come from the bedroom as he was washing his hands and chuckled. His lover might have been having a bad day, but Quentin silently thanked Peter’s misfortune. 

When Quentin finally entered the bedroom, he had to side-step Peter’s discarded clothes. Peter was a sight to behold, sitting on his knees with his bare ass to the door. His brown hair was all the more curly from being wet, and his lean muscles shuddered. He was open and on full display as his fingers disappeared in and out of his slick hole. A small vial of oil was beside Peter’s knee, already half-empty. 

“My, my. What a terrible day my Peter must have had to make him so needy,” Quentin chuckled. Peter withdrew his fingers and flopped down onto his back, pulling his legs up to his chest. 

“Break me,” Peter hissed. 

Quentin contemplated driving Peter wild with a strip tease, but remebered his fresh cuts. He made quick work of shutting off all the lights. Peter made a noise of disappointment, but didn’t say anything. With the rain still pounding outside, there was very little light shining through the otherwise pitch darkness. 

Quentin stripped down and felt relieved to be free of his damp clothes, despite the slight chill of the air on his skin. He rubbed at his cock a few times before he crawled onto the bed and hovered over Peter, stooping down to capture Peter’s lips. Effortlessly, he wrapped his legs around Quentin’s waist and whimpered as Quentin began kissing along Peter’s neck. Quentin was enticed by the wicked idea of abusing that perfect flesh he’d seen moments before and set to work biting the tender flesh along Peter’s neck. 

“Please...I want to bleed,” Peter moaned, tipping his head up to give Quentin better access. Quentin felt one of Peter’s hands snake around his cock and he tugged harshly. Peter was doing an exceptional job of exhibiting his desperation. 

“ _Fuck me_.” The words were so soft, Quentin wasn’t sure he’d heard them. He started feeling around for the vial of oil but Peter slapped his hand away. 

“I said I want to hurt!” Peter spit out. Quentin couldn’t help but laugh. This was the most vocal and demanding Peter had ever been in bed; Quentin was the one to whisper filthy things and make demands, but the change was thrilling.

“You got it, doll,” Quentin mused as he took his own cock in hand and lined it up with Peter’s hole. He could feel the warmth and slick of oil dance along his tip before he pushed in. The warmth and tightness made Quentin groan but he was soon laughing at Peter’s impatience as he unexpectedly lurched his hips forward, pressing Quentin’s full length inside with a grunt. 

“You’ve gotta let me have some control if you want me to break you, love.” 

Peter sighed and Quentin could feel him release some

of the tension in his muscles. Quentin set up a slow pace, fucking into him with calculated expertise. Every now and then Peter seemed to suppress the urge to rock his hips up, his legs twitching, but he remained still. 

After a particularly deep thrust, Quentin decided to roll them over, keeping them locked together. Quentin thrust his hips up agonizingly slow, but relished in every inch his cock moved inside Peter’s hole. Patience seemed to desert Peter as he whimpered something akin to “faster. Quentin slapped his face, then grabbed his face. 

“My pace, you needy slut,” Quentin bit out. “You need me to spank you?” Peter whimpered in response, and it was clear that that was _exactly_ what he needed. 

Quentin wiggled onto his elbows and sat up, and Peter made quick work of sprawling horizontally across Quentin’s lap. Peter’s dick pressed into Quentin’s thigh, and he was blessedly aware that Peter’s side was pressing against his cock. Quentin squeezed one of Peter’s cheeks before he launched the first blow. Peter whimpered, and Quentin was afraid he’d been overzealous until Peter choked out “yes.” Quentin rubbed the first spot before slapping down again, this time a bit harder. Peter let out a sob. The third and fourth blows made him squirm but he remained where he was. Quentin rubbed his thumbs along Peter’s cheek, then revved up for the fifth blow with as much force as he could muster. Peter cried out so loud Quentin was sure they’d hear the neighbors pounding on the walls, but he didn’t care. Peter had never been this desperate, this frenzied for sex, and Quentin was more than happy to deliver. 

Quentin switched to Peter’s other cheek and tried to replicate the pace he’d set with his other slaps. They made it to eight before Peter shook and cried out, his come leaking onto Quentin’s thigh. Quentin grabbed at Peter’s hair and pulled him up until they were face to face: it took Peter a few moments to focus his gaze.

“Get your mouth on me,” Quentin hissed. Peter nodded and Quentin released him. Without pause he was quickly down on Quentin’s cock, sucking in his length with a filthy slurp. He grabbed onto Peter’s hair and held him in place as he began fucking up into Peter’s mouth, the man remaining as still as he could. As Quentin chased his climax, Peter locked on to his cock, letting the come spill down his throat. Peter swallowed hard and Quentin began carding his fingers in Peter’s hair. 

Peter was breathing hard when he finally pulled off, and collapsed against Quentin’s chest. Quentin ran his hands soothingly over Peter’s shoulders.

“Better?” he finally asked. Peter nodded. 

“A bit. Can I-“ he began timidly, “stay tonight?” Quentin laughed and kissed Peter’s cheek.

“Of course, sweetheart. Let’s have some dinner though, hm?” 

Peter nodded, and after a few moments, Quentin finally untangled himself. He carefully exited the bed and rummaged around for his pajamas, knowing they were at the top of his laundry hamper. He grabbed them and headed into the bathroom to clean up. Quentin hummed as he washed up and got dressed. 

When Quentin returned to the bedroom, Peter had the light on and was on his knees, the closet doors wide open before him. 

“I wanted...something dry to wear…” Peter mumbled. Quentin started collecting up their clothes to lay on the heaters to dry.

“That’s alright, doll. Your clothes are still sopping wet.”

“I…” Peter began. Quentin realized that Peter was holding something in his lap. Something silver. It seemed that in his haste to discard his costume earlier, Quentin hadn’t done a very thorough job.

“Y-you’re Mysterio.” Quentin felt a flash of pride. This wasn’t exactly how he’d wanted to tell Peter he was none other than the Magnificent Mysterio, but he could work with it.

“Exciting, isn’t it!” Quentin exclaimed, leaning over Peter and kissing the top of his head. Peter pushed Quentin’s hand away and stood up, his face full of rage as he thrust the mask into Quentin’s chest like a dagger. 

“You...tricked me. All of this was because of _you.”_

Quentin furrowed his brow. “What are you talking about? Look doll, if I found out the Magnificent Mysterio was my lover, I’d have a much different reaction.”

Peter backed Quentin onto the bed, his fist raised to strike. “Not when the person you’re fucking is _Spider-Man.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Love Marvel and want a fun, accepting environment? Join us on Discord! https://discord.com/channels/@me/767603266963898410/767803337864118292


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